The Sphinx at Midnight

The bar in Cairo was empty except for me, the ancient bartender, and a stray dog curled near the door — the same dog I'd seen following me for three days. I swirled the last of my whiskey, watching lightning fracture the sky beyond the window, each flash illuminating the crags on the face of the man sitting across from me.

"You're not here for tourism," he said, not a question. "Spies never are."

I didn't deny it. Five years undercover in this city, and I'd stopped pretending to be anyone but the person I'd become. The corporate theft dossier in my pocket would ruin lives — my handler's, my target's, and probably mine too. That was the job.

"The Sphinx," he said, following my gaze to the photograph on the wall. "You know what they say? It asks the same question of everyone who passes. Answer wrong, and it devours you."

"And the question?"

He smiled, weathered and kind. "Who are you when no one is watching?"

Outside, rain began to fall, sheets of water blurring the neon signs. I thought of my wife back in London, of the lies I'd told her about consulting trips and late nights. I thought of the woman I'd been sleeping with here, the target's sister, and how somehow, impossibly, I'd fallen in love with her. The dog by the door lifted its head, watching me with unreadable eyes.

"I don't know anymore," I said.

He poured me another drink. "Then maybe it's time to find out."

I left the dossier on the bar. I left the job. The dog followed me into the rain, and for the first time in five years, I walked toward something instead of running away.